


Prussian Blue

by AngelDormais



Category: One Piece
Genre: Character Study, Drabbles, Found Family, Gen, Mugiwara no Ichimi | Straw Hat Pirates As Family, Nakamaship, No Romance, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:27:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26397871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelDormais/pseuds/AngelDormais
Summary: From every corner of the sea, they gathered around him. They would help him find it, and they already had. His All Blue.(Or: Well, that's just how they are.)(Sanji nakamaship drabbles. One per crewmate.)
Relationships: Vinsmoke Sanji & Everyone
Comments: 5
Kudos: 74





	Prussian Blue

If there is absolutely, positively anyone in this ragtag band of idiots that Sanji regrets meeting, it’s that shitty swordsman with kelped brains.

Everything about him wedges its way under Sanji’s skin in one way or another. His arrogance; his blunt rudeness towards the ladies of the crew; his talent for drinking their stock of liquor dry; the stupid, vacant look in his eye. The fact that he can’t leave the galley for a trip to the restroom without ending up in the damned _crow’s nest_.

(His loyalty, fiercer only once, when it mattered most. Two idiots put their lives down in payment for their captain’s. Their intentions are the same, but different.)

(Desperation is the fiercer, ugly sibling to nobility.)

It’s that very crow’s nest where he finds the shithead now, draped over the pull-up bar like some kind of green ape when they’ve already got a monkey of a captain. Sanji sighs, puts his tray down on the bench, and lights a cigarette. Trying to feed Zoro while he’s training would be about as productive as lobbing the food at the nearest wall, and only slightly less wasteful.

The mosshead adjusts his stance and pulls himself into a handstand atop the bar. He’s such a rude shit that he doesn’t even acknowledge Sanji, but there’s a twitch to his nose as he breathes in that lets the cook know that the cigarette smoke isn’t appreciated.

Good. He can choke on it.

“What do you want, Love-cook?” comes Zoro’s voice, thin and stretched by mild strain. Sanji takes the cigarette from his lips and regards his crewmate in slight surprise, having assumed he’d be ignored for much longer.

“You missed dinner,” he says simply. And then adds, because simplicity just isn’t fun: “Thought you got lost and found some rocks to grow on.”

Zoro makes a tetchy sound and drops from the bar in a low squat, sweat pouring from his temples. Sanji frowns. Traces three of the stitch scars down his shoulder, then averts his gaze, blowing a plume of smoke that scatters in the sunlight.

Without a word, the swordsman tugs a towel off of the bar and wipes his brow, then plops down onto the bench and grabs for the food on the tray. No manners at all, as usual. Sanji beats down his irritation and watches from the corner of his eye as Zoro picks up the spoon, digging into it instantly.

Asshole. If he was that hungry, he should’ve just come to eat with everyone else.

It’s widely known among the crew that everyone is expected to be there for mealtimes unless they’re dying or dead. It's usually not a problem; his basic principles aside, nobody on the ship would ever pass on Sanji's cooking willingly. And yet the idea that Zoro is just too much of a meatheaded, selfish lout to care about common courtesy is hardly beyond belief. Sanji places the cigarette in his mouth and shoves his hands into his pockets, heading for the ladder.

Suddenly, the obnoxious sound of snarfing pauses. 

“What is this?” Zoro asks curiously.

Sanji stops. Glances around. He’s got to talk to Franky about getting more ashtrays installed around the Sunny.

“Ikura don,” he says. He looks over at Zoro, who’s studying the bowl of rice and sashimi topped with seaweed as if he’s never seen it before. Thick-brained moron. Sanji’s served it to him more than once and he’d never questioned it before.

Zoro, though, looks thoughtful.

“This isn’t what the others had,” he observes.

Sanji feels a muscle twitch in his face. He drags on his cigarette slowly. “How would you know? You didn’t have the grace to show up.”

Zoro, unfazed by the pointed comment, continues shoveling his meal into his gaping face-hole.

“It was that pasta stuff with the green sauce,” he says plainly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I could smell it all the way up here.”

And for once, Sanji truly doesn’t know how to react. Pasta with vegetables and pesto, guilty as charged. Since when does that idiot even pay attention to what he cooks, as long as it pairs with the booze?

His reflexive nature comes through; with no real response, Sanji lets his irritation drive and scoffs out a derisive noise. “Afraid our captain ate your portion. If you’ve got a problem with what I brought you, try actually joining us next time, Marimo.”

Zoro doesn’t look up as Sanji turns away, but he does answer.

“I lost track of time, alright? Get off my back.” He pauses, and waits until Sanji mounts the ladder to add, “And I didn’t say anything about having a problem.”

Sanji halts. Doesn’t quite know what to do with that, either, but the beauty and relief of it is that he isn’t expected to.

(Expectations were like cigarette burns to the skin. He used to wake up on the Merry and see green hair in the bunk across from him, and smell nothing but salt and antiseptic until he chased it away with the gas stove.)

“Will you be there for breakfast or not?” he finds himself demanding sourly, tobacco splintering into his teeth. He looks over the top of the ladder and sees Zoro’s stupid moss-head, bobbing slowly up and down as he eats.

“Stop getting your dartbrow in a twist. I’ll be there,” he replies through a mouthful of rice.

Sanji clicks his tongue. Climbs down the ladder, and is thankful, privately, that regrets are nothing but a wayward, falling star to a Straw Hat.

(It was more than two years ago. Zoro handed him a knife, once, for no other reason than that Sanji needed it and Zoro was in the way. He held it by the blade as he passed it off, and Sanji, annoyed, knew he’d have to wash it. He didn’t say thanks, and Zoro didn’t say anything.)

(He still remembers the sensation as his hand closed around the grip and Zoro released the sharp edge. Different. The feeling of metal sliding across flesh without cutting; a blade, obeying a master of a different kind.)

(The chef uses his blade to nourish. The swordsman nourishes the blade.)

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't written for op in so long..... good lord i am so rusty with these characters. but in the apocalypse year 2020 i've gone full clown for this series again, someone please help me it's sTILL GOING
> 
> wci gave me such a softness for sanji again. so here we go. please enjoy the bite-sized ride!
> 
> -angel


End file.
